


trouble

by like_theletter, qar



Series: [qar]noor's collection of soft fics [9]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: And most importantly, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Child Neglect, Concussions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Gen, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Lots of it, Oh also, Pain, Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, WOOO H/C THAT'S MY TAG BABY!! -QAR, copious amounts of, referenced disordered eating as a result of depression, when i say tommy is Going Thru It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_theletter/pseuds/like_theletter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/qar/pseuds/qar
Summary: Tommy’s car is totaled and he’s been totaled with it. Wilbur’s concerned. Why wouldn’t he be?Disclaimer:If any of the creators mention they are uncomfortable with these types of fics we will take this down.
Relationships: ALL PLATONIC, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: [qar]noor's collection of soft fics [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961299
Comments: 176
Kudos: 2304
Collections: Completed stories I've read, saddest frog favorites!





	1. chapter 1: tommy

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING // self-hatred, parental neglect, suicidal ideation, car crashes, injury // TRIGGER WARNING
> 
> Hiya! L here. Qar says to blame me for most of the angst, but if you guys leave this feeling depressed it's definitely her fault.
> 
> (edit two hours after this was posted) hi this is qar L is fucking awesome and writes very good angst coolcool rad okay

Tommy is going to sue this town for being too confusing. 

He’s taken a right turn, then a left, tracing back the way to any road he recognizes, but somewhere along the way he’s gotten kind of hopelessly lost. He’s very close to pulling over and getting out the GPS— well, he’s very close to pulling over anyway, because the rain is getting scarily heavy now and even with the windshield wipers on high he can barely see anything. Tommy casts a quick glance to his passenger seat, where the thick folder of documents he buckled in on a whim is still sitting there, undisturbed. 

Thank god. 

There’s an embarrassing amount riding on the security of those documents, more than Tommy is really willing to admit to himself. It’s not as if Tommy getting these documents faxed safely to his parents is really going to make up for all the trouble he’s caused them, but it’s at least _something_ he can do. 

He can barely see anything in front of him through the rain anymore; the only thing visible is the blurred rear lights of cars near him. It’s insanely stressful, and Tommy can feel the tension in his shoulders as he sits ramrod straight in the driver’s seat, rather than his usual relaxed (and probably unsafe) posture. 

He’s only been driving on his own for a month now, and he really isn’t prepared to drive in weather like this. But Tommy wants— no, _needs_ to make up for bothering his parents somehow, and if he has to deal with this terrifying heavy downpour then he’ll just deal with it. 

Tommy’s halfway through a green light when he hears a horn honk from somewhere far behind him, and that’s when he makes the mistake— he whips his head around to look. It’s only for a second, but in that second he hears the squealing of brakes, sees a flash of light, and feels the ringing in his ears before he hears it. Then: nothing. 

Tommy doesn’t wake up all at once. First, he feels.

He feels cold liquid pooling around his ankles. He feels something sticky on his face. He feels a pounding in his head and a horrible stinging numbness in his arm and a stabbing pain in his abdomen whenever he takes a breath.

Next, hearing: a pervasive ringing in his ears, the irritated lashing of raindrops on metal, a rattling sound he’ll later realize is coming from him. 

He tastes blood and finally, Tommy opens his eyes. 

It is very hard to think. Very, very hard. It feels like cotton balls stuffed in his sinus cavities. It feels like heaps of scrap metal shoved into his brain. Tommy grapples with coherent thought like one of those liquid-filled plastic toys he used to play with that always slipped out of his hands. 

Tommy knows, in a vague sort of way, that he’s in trouble. He’s injured, that much is clear. He remembers driving. Something tells him he should be able to extrapolate from there. He can’t really think enough to do that, though.

Look around. Yes, yes, that he can do.

Tommy looks first down at himself. His arm is at a very bad angle. With a little bit of focus, he’s able to determine it’s broken, especially since he can’t feel it at all. He then, as if moving through honey, presses a violently trembling hand to his ribs and can’t help the gasp of pain that slips out. So he’s hurt there, too. That’s— something. Tommy is, unfortunately, present enough to feel nausea at the streaks of blood dripping down his arm. The window must have broken. 

The inventory has calmed him a bit, and with renewed vigor, Tommy decides to survey his surroundings. There are no cars passing by. The window is indeed broken. There’s probably glass in his arm, and maybe his face. He glances next to him, and oh, _shit._

The documents are getting wet.

Tommy lets out a very embarrassing whimper and reaches for them on instinct, which pulls at his side. He yelps and moves back, feeling tears sting at his eyes. His seatbelt. 

Tommy looks down, feeling a new ache in his neck spark with the motion, and fumbles for his seatbelt with clumsy, shaking hands. It takes him several tries to click the button down correctly, but eventually he’s able to squirm out of it, gasping in pain, tears slipping out and mingling with the rainwater on his face. At one point, Tommy reaches to swipe some of the liquid off his face and blinks dumbly when his fingers come back red. Ah— the unknown substance on his face was blood.

Good to know.

But the documents are _still_ getting wet. Tommy makes a frustrated, desperate sound in the back of his throat. He’s going to fucking get them. He can get to them before they’re ruined. He _will._

Tommy tries to take a deep breath to steel himself, and it stutters against his injured ribs. The pain is burning. He chokes on it and lets out a truly pathetic whine that scrapes against his already weary vocal chords. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuuuck_. 

Gulping in shallow breaths to calm himself, Tommy tries again to rally his strength. He is going to do this. He is going to get the documents, he’s going to fax them perfectly (even though he doesn’t quite know how to do that or why the man he’d gotten them from couldn’t just email them), and his parents will be _so_ appreciative. They’ll stay home for longer, ruffle his hair and ask about his day like they used to. They’ll tell him they’re proud of him.

With that, Tommy tries again. This time he makes sure to arc his body around the center console, despite the ache in his chest, and stretches his unbroken arm across the car. His hand closes around the folder. 

It takes half the effort to pull the folder back into his lap, partly because he’s emboldened by his miniature success. They’re going to be fine. He’s going to check them over and sigh in relief and shove them under his shirt and get them to his parents safe and— 

They’re drenched. 

Tears prick at his eyes, spilling over down his cheeks. They’re mush. The ink is bleeding through from one page to the next to the next, rendering the words illegible. They are, fully and truly, ruined. 

Tommy can’t breathe. 

His parents are going to be so fucking disappointed, and Tommy knows it’s nobody’s fault but his— except maybe the asshole that hit him. Speaking of which, a quick glance around him confirms that yes, there is absolutely no one around. He's alone. 

This was one of the only things they had ever asked from him, and it had been such a simple task- and he’s fucked it up majorly. He’s ruined it. 

He looks at the folder in his hand. It’s dripping with water, completely saturated, and Tommy knows there’s no saving it. He’d driven all the way to another city, and he’d somehow dealt with the horrible weather, and now his car’s totaled and he’s in _so_ much pain.

His hand itches for his phone, and he reaches into his pocket where it should be; somehow, it seems undamaged. He turns it on with trembling hands. The screen seems blurry, and Tommy lets out another gasping sob before he realises that _everything’_ s blurry- his phone is fine.

He taps Google Maps and shakily searches for the closest hospital, praying that autocorrect does its job. His fingers automatically move towards his contacts; surely his parents won’t— they won’t— maybe Wilbur, or Phil— 

No, Tommy decides. He’s not going to bother them; not going to be more of a burden than he already is. 

Google Maps says the nearest hospital is a fifteen minute walk. That's not bad. That's not bad at all. 

There's the problem of the door, though: it's definitely not going to open. The metal is crumpled and torn, and there's no way the latch mechanism is working. The backseat of the driver’s side is the same way. Tommy looks to the passenger side, where the door is intact. Okay. He's going to have to drag himself over the center console and shimmy through to the other side. It's fine. He can do it. 

Having a plan makes Tommy’s head feel clearer, dispelling some of the hysteria seeing the documents had brought. He's lucid enough to realize he definitely needs a hospital, and if he can get it taken care of without having to beg for help, maybe he can call his parents and apologize. Maybe he can still salvage this.

Tommy takes as deep a breath as he can. Gingerly, he places two hands on the center console and slowly, excruciatingly, heaves himself up. Once he’s halfway over, it's easier (if not painless) to pull himself off of it. He fails to account for gravity, though, and ends up falling solidly from the center console to the seat. 

Tommy’s vision whites out for a second. He physically gags on the pain, and a broken sound he didn't even know he could make is ripped from his throat. Oh god. For a delirious second, Tommy thinks he's going to die. The idea doesn’t scare him as much as it should.

The fog clears. Tommy takes a shuddering breath, and feels more tears slip out. Fuck. It's fine. It’s fine. He did it. See? He can handle it. 

His hands are numb now, and shaking so badly he's barely able to grasp the car handle to push the door open. Distantly, Tommy knows that should worry him. It's taken so much out of him, though, to push past the hysteria, that now he feels nothing at all. 

The door is open. If Tommy were more present he’d probably make a pathetic little cheer. 

Finally, _finally_ , Tommy drags himself out. He's out! A vague sense of triumph makes its way past the fog in his brain. 

Except it's still raining. 

Very hard. 

Tommy turns to look back in the car, where the documents are sitting on the passenger seat. They're ruined, but leaving them seems impossible. He knows in his heart there’s no salvaging them, but Tommy reaches in to grab the folder anyway. 

Thank god his legs are relatively uninjured. The rain is so heavy, it’s waterlogged his hoodie before he gets two meters from the car. It feels like acid pelting his injuries. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Tommy can feel the burning pain in his arm that grows more intense by the second. 

It’s hard to keep track of what direction he’s supposed to take when he has to lean over and shield his phone with his body to check the GPS, especially when the motion makes the pounding in his head a million times worse. But Tommy knows vaguely what road he’s supposed to walk alongside, and for how long, so he figures that’s good enough. Cold rainwater mingles with the blood on his face. Cars pass by, uncaring. Seems about right.

More than once, Tommy almost breaks and calls Wilbur. 

Wilbur’s the only semi-viable option, honestly. Phil lives too far away, Tubbo couldn’t do much without involving his parents. Tommy can just imagine his mother’s reaction if he were to call her: she’d be furious about the documents, _rightfully,_ his irresponsibility, being disturbed at work. Tommy can’t deal with that right now without shattering into a million tiny pieces, and he would rather handle this one on his own than show her his shameful weakness. 

Wilbur, though. He can’t call Wilbur.

The last time Wilbur helped Tommy was a few weeks ago, when he got sick again. Wilbur had made him promise to ask for help if he was struggling.

Ironically, that’s exactly why Tommy can’t.

He’d been so sure things were going to get better, after getting out of the hospital. Wilbur said he’d talk to Tommy’s parents about leaving him alone. People cared about him. He could keep wringing happiness from streaming and still take care of himself. Things were going to get better.

That— wasn’t what happened. Instead, everything got about a million times worse.

Tommy’s been hanging on by a thread, so to speak. College has been ramping up intensity more than ever as they near the end of the semester, his parents are— his parents, and on top of all that, Tommy’s mind has been fraying at the seams. He’s lost all motivation. Days pass, one after another, in a haze. He’s not working too hard to remember to eat anymore, but it’s because he’s barely working at all, and even the energy required to make meals evades him. He’s been living off of granola bars and baby carrots for the past few weeks. Wilbur would not be happy to hear that. 

Tommy’s fucked this one up, sure. If he had asked for help earlier maybe things would have been okay. But he didn’t, because he’s supposed to be able to handle himself. He knows it. His parents know it. Tommy wishes Wilbur would get the memo. 

And if Tommy can just make it through here, Wilbur will never have to know about his parents, about the crash, about the hopelessness that weighs heavier on him with every passing day. He can stay the bright, loud, obnoxious kid in Wilbur’s eyes. Nothing has to change.

Tommy nods resolutely to himself, which makes his neck twinge. According to the GPS, he’s around five minutes from the hospital now. An interesting time for him to be so close to giving up hope. 

It’s just that he’s so _tired_. Everything hurts. His legs, which were previously only a little bruised, are now aching angrily from him dragging his feet through the sopping grass aside the road. Beyond the agonizing pain of his broken arm, there are pinpricks of fire streaking blood down every exposed bit of skin, where he assumes the glass from the window sliced him. Of course he had his sleeves rolled up. Not to mention his ribs, the gnawing pain of which pulses in time with his heartbeat. His head pounds. His vision swims. He’s dizzy, he’s so goddamn _tired._

When he finally stumbles into the hospital, drenched and bloody and bruised with tears streaming down his face, he’s actually relieved people pay attention to him. He’d half expected the doctors and nurses to shoot him a glance and move on, like his parents often did; it’s probably the pain in his head speaking.

“Oh, oh my.” A nurse takes one look at him and hurries around the desk, coming to meet him as he stands in the doorway. There are a handful of people sitting in the waiting room: an old man, a middle-aged woman, and her young daughter. They turn to look at him. “Sweetheart, sit down, please.”

Tommy allows the woman to usher him to a seat. He gives her his name. He doesn’t understand why she looks so sad when he tells her he’s sixteen. 

It’s kind of nice, though, to be cared for like this. Tommy can’t remember the last time his parents showed this kind of concern.

No, he really can’t remember— he sits there, trying, as the nurse rushes away to grab him a form. Wow, his parents don’t care about him. That’s. Something.

“You need to fill this out, sweetie,” the nurse says gently, handing him a clipboard and a ballpoint pen. Tommy grabs them with shaky hands and squints at it. The words swim in front of him. 

“I— I can’t— my head,” Tommy explains weakly, trying to communicate the blurriness of his vision that’s preventing him from filling out the form. He feels his breathing hitch. 

The nurse nods quickly, sympathetically, and places a gentle hand on his wrist. “Oh, honey, don’t worry. Don’t worry at all. It’s okay. Do you think you can stand for me, sweetheart?”

Tommy does, on unsteady feet, and the nurse wraps a solid hand around his non-injured arm. The contact makes him tear up. The last time he had a gentle touch like this was the last time he was in the hospital, with Wilbur. The reminder of his loneliness chokes him up again.

The nurse whispers placating nonsense to him, “You’re doing great, sweetheart, you’re so strong.” He wants her to stop lying to him. He wants her to keep going. He’s so tired. 

Finally, Tommy’s led to an uncomfortable hospital bed. He sits, dazed, as the nurse checks over his injuries, cleaning the little cuts that have blemished his skin with medicine that he can barely feel the sting of. Other medical personnel move in and out of the cramped little room, and the woman tending to his smaller injuries mutters with them. Tommy’s too exhausted to listen in. His eyes are drooping, and he’s teary-eyed with a lack of energy and sheer misery. The tears start to spill over as the numbness goes away, though, and the realisation that he’s alone here sets in, and—

“Darling,” the nurse begins, voice soft. “You need to call an adult.” She sounds sympathetic as Tommy curls into himself, starting to full on sob. His arm hurts, and his head hurts, and his chest hurts so bad and he’s all alone in this city he’s entirely unfamiliar with. “You need surgery to set that arm, sweetheart, or it’ll heal wrong.”

“I-” He stutters in between loud, gasping sobs. “I don’t w-wanna.” He’s fully aware he sounds entirely like a child, sitting here on this uncomfortable white hospital bed and bawling, but he’s been holding back his emotions for so long— trying to be as mature as people wanted to be, trying to be a good streamer. A good son. 

And he’s failed. _Miserably_. “I don’t wanna call anyone.”

“You need a family member to sign a form to get it fixed,” she repeats, slowly. “Or we can find your parents for you and call them.”

“No!” Tommy snaps, yanking at his hair in frustration. The tears won’t stop coming. He doesn’t want to call his parents, he doesn’t want to call anyone because he’ll be bothering them because he’s a burden and a huge piece of shit. But if the hospital ends up calling his parents anyway... “C-can you give me my phone?”

It’s next to him, on the little metal table; but Tommy feels like if uncurls himself he’ll break into tiny little pieces. The nurse hands him his phone, and he makes a vague ‘leave me alone’ gesture. She complies with a pitying frown, and Tommy takes a moment to take a deep breath, let go of his hair and stop crying like a fucking child.

He looks through his contacts using his relatively uninjured hand. His parents are at the top; neither would have noticed him not coming home, and his last message from his mother is the location he had to pick the documents up from. Tommy tears up thinking of the documents and swipes at his eyes; he goes back to scrolling through his calls before he starts sobbing again.

Wilbur’s name is there, and Tommy clicks it, sniffling. There is no one else to call; his parents will scold him for being so reckless and wasting their time, he knows, and Tubbo wouldn’t be able to help much if he tried; and Tommy’s arm hurts really, really bad, and if the only thing that’ll fix it is calling Wilbur he’ll give in. Even if it made him feel guilty as hell, which it does— of course it does.

His phone rings once, then twice, and Tommy’s finger is on the decline button before it rings thrice— but Wilbur’s already picked up, and greets him loudly, as he usually does. “Hello, Tommy!”

And Tommy’s head is _so fucking fuzzy_ and his body hurts _so fucking bad_ and he’s so _miserable_ that the moment he hears a familiar voice he’s blubbering like a child wanting attention— which, honestly, he is. 

“Wilbur— I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, my car— I don’t know where the fuck I am— the documents, Wilbur, why do I fuck _everything_ up?” Tommy hears Wilbur’s breath hitch on the other end of the phone, and hears the clack of a keyboard. “W-Wilbur it _hurts_.”

“Tommy, what the fuck, are you okay?” Wilbur asks, and there’s quiet commotion in Tommy’s ear. “I’ve ended my stream— where are you? I’m on my way.”

Oh god. Wilbur had been _streaming_. Wilbur had been streaming, and Tommy’d just— he’d just fucking interrupted, like the annoying fucking child that he was, because he couldn't even stay responsible long enough to do the _simple fucking task_ of getting these documents to his parents. He should be able to deal with this. He’s _going_ to deal with this. He takes a deep, stuttering breath. 

“S-Sorry about that, Wilbur,” Tommy says, trying to keep his voice steady and failing. It doesn’t matter. Wilbur won’t mind; hopefully he’ll just keep streaming, and maybe he’ll accept Tommy’s apology for interrupting later. 

Tommy ends the call and lets out the sob he’s been holding back, burying his head back into his arm. He’s such a fuck-up. He can’t do anything.

His phone rings. Tommy lets it.

It keeps going for a minute, stops, and starts again. Tommy picks it up.

“Tommy, where are you?” Wilbur repeats the moment he picks up. The wind and rain is audible in between his words, and Tommy chokes back another sob. He just can’t stop _crying._

“I- don’t worry about me, big man,” he says. His chest hurts. His ribs feel like they’re on fire. “I’m sorry for interrupting your stream.”

“That’s _fine_ , Tommy, just tell me where you are,” Wilbur says, sounding frustrated. Tommy’s throat closes up.

There’s a nurse by his door, and he puts his phone on speaker, drops it on the bed and waves at her. Wilbur’s still talking when she walks over. “Tommy, where are you?” He sounds frantic. Tommy’s heart twists with guilt. He’s causing problems again. What's fucking new. 

The nurse seems to get the hint, thankfully, and Tommy scrambles back onto the hard mattress as she approaches; and watches her, curled around his injured arm and protecting his ribs, as she quietly tells Wilbur where the hospital is. 

“That’s next to the— uh, yeah, I know that place, it’s fifteen minutes away,” Wilbur says. “I’m his brother. What injuries does he have?”

Tommy’s eyes blur again, and he makes a small sound of distress. Wilbur shouldn’t have to drive so far— he shouldn’t have to lie, or worry, just because Tommy’s car got totaled and he got totaled with it. He should be in his office right now, streaming, doing his job instead of dealing with a needy child.

He lets out a low, distressed noise, and feels tears drip down his face again. Everything hurts so fucking bad, and his his skin’s on fucking fire and he’s so alone and so scared. 

“Tommy?” someone's voice says. “Tommy, you’re alright, you’re— you’re okay, take a deep breath, okay?”

It isn’t that he doesn’t try— he sucks in as much air as his lungs can handle, which isn’t much because his lungs are fucking refusing to cooperate, and so is the rest of his body, which is crying out in protest.

“I— I _can’t_ ,” he gasps. “I _swear_ — I’m t-trying.” 

Maybe he should have tried harder, though, like he should’ve with everything else in his life— because everything goes black, slowly, and he comes to with a blur of yellow and a harsh voice.

“—so fucking irresponsible!” it snaps, steadily growing closer and louder. “I’d expect this behaviour from children!” 

It’s Wilbur, scathing like Tommy’s never heard before. Hearing it— directed at him, especially— makes Tommy’s eyes burn with unshed tears for what feels like the millionth time today. The door is pushed angrily open, and the flash of yellow returns; it’s Wilbur’s amber sweater, and the older man has been pacing, seemingly furious, across the hospital for the short time Tommy’s been lucid. And he’s furious at _Tommy_.

And, like— Tommy had been expecting anger, of course he had. He’d taken up Wilbur’s precious time; time Wilbur could have spent working, or streaming, or editing, or doing _literally_ anything else. _Of course_ Wilbur was going to be upset.

But Tommy's been naive, maybe overly optimistic in his post-crash delusion. Wilbur’s here, now, after Tommy had called him, and he’s furious. Tommy’s _never_ heard Wilbur raise his voice like this; the anger around him is palpable, almost, and Tommy shrinks away from its radius like it burns. He’s fucked everything up. Hopefully Wilbur will forgive him; but judging by the dark expression on his face, he probably doesn’t deserve it.

And then the expression melts when Wilbur meets his eyes, turning into the soft, brotherly one that Tommy’s familiar with, and he lifts his phone from where it’s pressed against his ear, shutting it off. The angry aura seems to dissipate. And Tommy’s just— so, so confused. 

“Tommy?” Wilbur asks, softly. Tommy realises, slowly, that he’s frozen up— he’s so close to crying again, as he’s been for the last few days, and the overwhelming fear and misery that’s overcome him since thinking Wilbur’s going to chew him out doesn’t help in the slightest. “Tommy, _breathe_.” 

He does, now, absently following the rise and fall of Wilbur’s chest from what he can see. The older man is standing at the doorway, and his jacket is draped over one of the cheap hospital chairs along with a backpack. His hair is flat on his forehead, and his sweater is damp and sticks to his sides. He’s dealt with so much just to— what, stand here and watch Tommy. It’s useless.

“I’d be dead if I wasn’t breathing,” Tommy quips weakly, gripping his knee with his uninjured hand. “Hi, Wilbur.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur breathes. “Oh my god, you could have died.” He sounds so concerned— so hurt, and shocked, and plain afraid that Tommy’s chest hurts. He could be at _home_ if Tommy hadn’t called. He wouldn’t be upset in any way. But here he is.

“I-I’m sorry,” Tommy blurts out, trying in any way to make Wilbur less upset. “I’m so sorry for bothering you. You can— you can just— can you please just sign a paper so I can get my arm fixed, Wilbur, please?” To his horror, his voice cracks halfway through, and the tears he’s desperately been holding back finally start to spill again. “I’m _sorry._ ”

“Tommy—” Wilbur starts, sounding wrecked. “Tommy, can I hug you?”

Tommy looks down at his hands, wretched; they’re coated in dried blood, and it’s starting to flake off— and nods, mouth too dry to speak. He’s immediately enveloped in warm, careful arms; they’re careful not to brush against his arm or his ribs, and Tommy welcomes them and grips the sweater covering them tight. He’s so tired. He’ll take all the love he can get.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, tears soaking into the damp sweater. “I’m really sorry— you can sign the thing and leave, Wilbur, I’m sorry.”

Wilbur’s trembling around him; he pulls back, slowly, but stops when Tommy clutches his sweater tighter. He leans back in, dropping carefully onto the hospital bed, and lets Tommy bury his head into the crook of his neck. “Toms, sweetheart...” He sounds— just— _horrified_. “Oh my god, Tommy, no, never, I’m staying right here.”

“Go home,” Tommy sniffles into Wilbur’s neck. “I’m sorry for bothering you, I’m such a fucking useless child—”

“Tommy, no, oh my god,” Wilbur says. He sounds like he’s tearing up. “Tommy, you’re worth a million streams to me, okay? You can call me anytime— I’m always here. You’re not useless, you’re— oh my god, _Tommy_.”

“If I hadn’t called you—”

“Thank you so much for calling, alright?” Wilbur pulls away and cradles Tommy’s face in his hands. “We’d have been so worried, Toms, you could have been _dead_ and we wouldn’t have known.” Wilbur’s voice cracks too, now, and Tommy just breaks.

Tommy _breaks._

“I can’t— Wil, I can’t do it, I can’t take it anymore—” Tommy can barely speak through the shuddering sobs, his heart is pounding against his aching ribs, Wilbur’s pulling him back into a hug so he’s crying into his sweater again— “Everything’s so hard and I— I’m not strong enough, Wil, please, _please_ help me, I know you have better things to do, I’m so sorry—”

Wilbur has time to say, “I’m here for you, Toms, I’m always here—” before Tommy continues:

“I really didn’t mean to make you come all the way here, I’m so sorry— I fuck everything up, I fucked up your streaming, the fucking documents, I— I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ — _”_

“Oh, Tommy, _no—_ ”

“Wil, why do I _always_ fuck things up, I shouldn’t have fucking called you— hell, I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital, people are _dying_ and the doctors are taking care of _me—_ because I couldn’t fucking drive one document a few cities—”

“Tommy, darling, you would’ve _died—_ ”

“Maybe I should have!” Distantly, he registers Wilbur’s sharp inhale. “Maybe that guy didn’t hit my car hard enough, Wilbur, maybe then they’d pay some attention to me _—_ ”

“Toms _— Tommy,_ sweetheart..” Wilbur’s staring at him, looking absolutely devastated, eyes bright with unshed tears.

Tommy, breathing heavily, realizes what he’s just said. He swallows. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Tommy, listen to me, okay? Look at me.” 

Tommy slowly, reluctantly, looks up through eyelashes heavy with tears and meets Wilbur’s warm, watery eyes. “There we are. _There you are_. Tommy, darling boy—” Large hands come up to clutch his blood-stained, damp T-shirt. Tommy interrupts him.

“Wil— I mean, I can see the big picture. I’m worthless and annoying and a fucking massive burden— I mean, chat says it, my parents say it— and, be realistic, Wilbur, you can’t possibly say I’m not annoying.”

Wilbur’s expression falls at his words. His eyes search Tommy’s face desperately. Tommy doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but if Wilbur denies this outright, Tommy knows he’s just lying in an attempt to make him feel better. 

“You don’t really think that, do you?” Wilbur asks quietly, voice thick with tears.

Tommy tries for a laugh and lands somewhere in the territory of a sob. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Wilbur looks away. He takes a shuddering breath— Tommy watches his shoulders rise and fall with the action. When he turns back, his cheeks are wet. 

“Have your parents been home since the hospital last time?” 

Now it’s Tommy’s turn to look away, fiddling absently with the bandages on his arms. He shrugs, despite knowing that answers the question anyway.

Wilbur sighs, and it’s so full of pain and frustration that Tommy has to shut his eyes. 

“Tommy— I was just talking to your parents earlier, you know. I think you heard me yelling at them and thought I was yelling at you.” Tommy nods, and opens his mouth. Wilbur presses a finger to it, shushing him. “They’re expecting too much of you, Toms. You’re still just a kid, even if you and others around you think that you need to be mature, or that you have to constantly take care of yourself.” Wilbur wipes his eyes and drapes a hand over Tommy’s shoulder. “Tommy, you’re sixteen. You’re so young. You shouldn’t have to fucking— walk alone from a car crash to the hospital. You shouldn't have to get your own groceries, god, Tommy, _please._ What would you do if Tubbo did that?”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “That’s different.”

“How so?” 

“He’s—” Less annoying. More important. Worthy of love. “He’s _Tubbo,_ Wilbur, I’m Tommy.” 

“You’re just as important to us,” Wilbur says. “Tommy, look at me. You’re _just as important to us._ ”

Looking into Wilbur’s earnest eyes, he can almost believe it. 

Tommy feels more tears slide down his cheeks. “Wilbur,” he says. “ _Wil_.”

Wilbur pulls him into another hug. This time Tommy’s present enough to feel the warmth of it, the comfort of another human being. He melts into it. It would be embarrassing if he hadn’t already bared his soul. Wilbur stiffens, then presses a kiss to the side of Tommy’s head and leans back.

“What did you mean,” Wilbur says carefully, voice controlled, “when you said your parents say it?”

“Say what?”

“That you're a burden. And annoying, and— and worthless.” 

Oh, shit. Tommy hadn't meant to say that. It makes the situation seem a lot worse than it is. Tommy’s parents are good, really, they're just busy. And he's a horrible child. It doesn't make a good combination. 

“I— I just meant—”

“Have your parents said that to you, Tommy?”

“T-they haven’t,” Tommy says, shakily. “Just— It’s in their _words_ , Wilbur, you can hear it.”

“And they’re _wrong_!” Wilbur exclaims, and Tommy lets Wilbur wrap around him tighter, although his body hurts like a bitch. He’s going to grab all the comfort offered to him with both hands. “Tommy, they’re wrong, okay? You— You’re worth so much— I mean, you have two million subscribers, and you have so many friends— _so_ many people care about you.”

“I don’t understand why,” Tommy murmurs quietly into Wilbur’s sweater. “I— I don’t get it.” Wilbur pulls away, slowly, detangling his arms from Tommy’s like he has all the concern in the world.

“Have you talked to your therapist about this?” Wilbur’s open concern hurts, especially because— 

“No, I, uh…” Tommy looks down at his hands and traces the bandages with his finger. “I’ve… missed the past two sessions.”

Wilbur exhales slowly, looping a hand gently around Tommy’s wrist. “So you haven’t been in a month?”

“I was just— I was so busy, I had to get things, and do work, and the whole— you know. I couldn’t— yeah.” 

“Have you been sleeping?”

Tommy has. Way too much, but he settles for, “Yeah.”

Wilbur purses his lips as if he can hear the unsaid words. He looks down at where his hand encircles Tommy’s wrist, and an unidentifiable emotion flickers across his features. “Eating?” he presses. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says absently, even though it’s a total lie. 

Wilbur taps his thumb to each individual finger around Tommy’s wrist and inspects the leftover space, as if proving a point. “The doctors told me you’re malnourished. Worse than last time.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“‘m sorry.”

Wilbur makes a small noise of frustration and slides his hand down so he’s holding Tommy’s in his own. “You don’t have to be sorry, just— I’m just _worried_ about you, Toms.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Tommy whispers desperately. “You— you should sign it and— go home,” he says, even though that’s the very last thing Tommy wants right now. 

Wilbur squeezes his hand and shakes his head. “I’m staying right here, okay? I’m signing the papers, and I’ll sit here and hold your hand for as long as you want.”

Tommy nods. More tears slide down his face. Wilbur wipes them away, then stands to take care of the forms, leaving with a kiss on his forehead. 

Wilbur’s not mad. He says he loves him. He says he’ll always be there. 

It goes against everything Tommy thinks, everything he’s been told, just— _everything_ : the idea that he’s not a burden, that he’s not an annoyance, that someone would willingly take care of him.

And, well, it fits in with what seemed to be Wilbur’s agenda all those past hospital visits; the older man showered him in love, and care, and gentle reminders of how important Tommy was to people; and Tommy always believed his words in the moment— even if that belief faded after a day or two. With the words of two million people, and the unintentionally unkind words of his parents, _of course_ he wouldn’t believe them. Of course.

But he’s pressed himself into the corner of this hospital bed, and Wilbur’s leaned over and wrapped his hand around Tommy’s, going through papers with his other, and— Tommy can see it, he thinks. He can see the love.

And Wilbur’s hand is still intertwined with his when the doctors knock him out, and his vision goes back; and when he wakes up, they’re curled around his fingers, gently, as Wilbur quietly mutters through his phone.

And Wilbur’s hands are warm against his back when Tommy finally raises his arms and asks for a hug, because he’s tired, and drowsy, and high on painkillers; and if he wants comfort right now, he isn’t going to stop himself.

And Wilbur stays there, in the sad little plastic chair next to his bed, and Tommy swallows his guilt because he’s given Wilbur all the reasons to leave— and yet he’s still here; absently scrolling through his phone, tapping Tommy’s hands rhythmically like it helps in any way— and it does. Wilbur’s a solidifying presence, and the fact that he _stays_ is enough to make Tommy cry.

And Tommy breaks down again when Philza Minecraft arrives, hefting several sets of clothes and food that’s actually surprisingly healthy, because— Phil shouldn’t care. Phil should be—

But he’s had this conversation before, with Wilbur, and for some reason he knows it’ll end the same way; so he shoves the concept of being loved into his brain and locks it there, because he’s loved, he’s loved, he is _loved_ —

When Phil pulls him into a hug, subtly looking him over and carefully avoiding his scrapes, and his cuts, and his arm and his ribs, it’s with such gentle care that Tommy clings on tighter. No matter how much he hates himself, or thinks he’s worthless, Phil’s always made him feel loved. Tommy knows that feeling is universal— Phil’s just awesome like that.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Phil says, almost cradling him, despite Tommy being a much Bigger Man. “You need to start calling us when you’re in trouble, okay?” 

Tommy nods, quietly, into Phil’s shirt. He still doesn’t get why Phil’s bothering— the man has a wife, for fuck’s sake, he could be at home doing married things, like Carl and Ellie from Up before Ellie fucking died— yet he’s here, holding Tommy like his life depends on it, freshly bought clothes dropped on a chair. Wilbur’s in the washroom changing into the clothes Phil’d brought, and Phil holds him the entire time.

And Tommy watches, while they think he’s asleep, as Wilbur calls his parents; the angry aura is back, and Tommy almost cowers before he remembers it isn’t directed towards him. Phil’s also watching, leaning back in the chair he’s dragged next to Tommy’s bed, one of Wilbur’s headphones in his ear. His face tightens immediately when it seems like Tommy’s mum has picked up, and Tommy knows— he can almost hear it— she’s asking why they’ve disturbed them at work. 

Phil’s hand tightens around his, almost unnoticeably, and Tommy grips it back; the older man looks up, surprised, and smiles at him, albeit a bit strained. “It’s going to be fine, Toms,” he says, quietly so the phone won’t pick it up. “You’ll be fine.”

Tommy looks down at him; he’s driven hours to sit here, and his hand is warm around Tommy’s; Wilbur is still on the phone, legs crossed on the plastic chair, and he’s speaking in low, angry tones; and Tommy’s arm is in a cast and his ribs are bandaged thoroughly and he’s here, in an unfamiliar city, with two friends and no parents. His car is totaled somewhere on the streets, and the folder— the fucking folder— is sitting on the table, almost dry. It’s not okay.

But, Tommy decides, looking at the people who care, maybe it will be.


	2. chapter 2: wilbur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur's in over his head.
> 
> Just a reminder: This fanfiction does not in any way reflect Tommyinnit’s real mother. This isn’t speculation— it’s a work of fiction with a fictional situation. If any creators mentioned are uncomfortable with these works we will take them down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, L here! Qar is asleep right now, so I'm posting this all by my lonesome :( 
> 
> Anyway, I just wanted to thank you all so much for the positive response to this story! Every comment has absolutely made my day and I'm so happy to see we've made so many of you cry :) Seriously though, this is the first fic I've posted in a while and all of your feedback has absolutely blown me away. I periodically get emotional about it. It's gross. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and hope you enjoy!

This is the worst Wilbur’s ever been at Geoguesser.

He’s streaming, as he does, and he’s been failing so miserably for the last few rounds that he’s given up entirely on the game itself and now his 40k viewers are watching him watch Phil play Minecraft. It’s very chaotic, especially now that he’s joined Phil’s voice call, and now the two of them are arguing over pointless topics- they’d been talking about flags, earlier, and somehow they’d drifted back to the topic of sand; but the chaos has lulled, now.

Wilbur leans back in his seat, running a hand through unruly dark hair, and watches, quietly, as Phil digs a fuck-ton of sand in his hardcore world. “Where are Tommy and Techno?” he asks, absently reading the chat. “Phil, where are Tommy and Techno?”

There’s a short pause, and Phil’s face on Wilbur’s screen stops. “No clue,” the older man says, then chuckles. “I think Techno went out with his family for once in his life— remember he was complaining about it?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur says. “That man hates socialising.”

“I think we all know that,” Phil says, stretching out. “As for Tommy— I think he’s gone out or something, that little motherfucker.”

“The gremlin child,” Wilbur agrees. “Yeah— or he would’ve joined this call a while ago.”

Phil makes a noise of agreement, and there’s a moment of quiet again. Phil’s Minecraft character keeps digging. Wilbur checks his phone. It rings in his hand.

“Speak of the devil!” Wilbur exclaims. It’s a little odd— usually, Tommy announces that he’s joining the call enthusiastically in a text channel before actually joining, and Wilbur hasn’t seen any messages from him in a while. He’d probably just heard Phil and Wilbur talking about him, though, so Wilbur picks up without much caution. “Hello, Tommy!”

There’s something wrong with the audio; there’s the muffled sounds of people talking, and it’s subpar quality. Tommy probably isn’t at home. Then, Tommy starts speaking and Wilbur’s heart drops.

“Wilbur— I’m sorry—” Tommy sounds wrecked, and Wilbur freezes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Phil stop as well. The Minecraft pause screen comes on. “I’m s-sorry, my car— I don’t know where the fuck I am— the documents, Wilbur, why do I fuck _everything_ up?” 

Wilbur’s breath hitches. He mutes his stream and turns off his camera, and Phil follows suit. “Oh god,” Phil breathes.

“W-Wilbur it _hurts_ ,” Tommy _whimpers_ , and Wilbur’s eyes widen.

“Wil, end your stream,” Phil says quietly. Wilbur does so abruptly. He can hear Twitter going insane already, but Tommy sounds so— so _in pain_ , and Wilbur’ll deal with the fans later to be here for Tommy without interruption.

“Phil, I’ll call you in a minute,” Wilbur says, mouse hovering over the close button for Discord, voice quiet. He doesn’t want to distress Tommy any further.

Tommy’s breathing is labored and shallow on the other end of the call, and Wilbur’s hands fly across his desktop to get everything shut properly. “Tommy, what the fuck, are you okay?” He clicks shut down, and stands up, shifting through the things on his desk for his wallet. “I’ve ended my stream— where are you? I’m on my way.”

Wilbur can hear Tommy’s distant sobs cut off, abruptly, and hears deep, stuttering breaths as he stands up. “S—Sorry about that, Wilbur,” Tommy says, and Wilbur feels dread spike down his back. As if Tommy’d felt it, or maybe caused it, the line goes dead, and Wilbur stares at his phone blankly for a second before calling back. He doesn’t answer, and Wilbur’s eyes sting. He’d sounded so in _pain_. What if he was hurt, and his phone was dead— hell, he was out of town, Wilbur’d have to call so many hospitals— and he would, but— 

Tommy picks up on the second call, and Wilbur rubs his eyes, relieved, over the sound of Tommy’s quiet hyperventilating. He just needs to get a _location._

“Tommy, where are you?” Wilbur asks, carefully, pulling his jacket on and locking his office doors. His car’s by the sidewalk, and he scrambles down the stairs to get to it.

“I— don’t worry about me, big man,” Tommy says, voice shattered. “I’m sorry for interrupting your stream.”

“That’s _fine_ , Tommy,” Wilbur says, frantic. “Just tell me where you are.”

There’s no reply, and Wilbur feels his eyes sting again. He’s— he’s going to fucking lose Tommy, he’s going to— he’s going to fucking _die,_ and Wilbur won’t know where he _is_ — “Tommy, where _are you?”_

A female voice answers, and Wilbur holds back a sob, starting up his car with shaking hands. “Oh my god,” he mumbles to himself as she starts to explain Tommy’s location— he’s in a hospital, alone, apparently, holy shit—

“I’m his brother,” Wilbur says, dark hair obscuring his view. The lie rolls off his tongue— it’s entirely true. “What injuries does he have?”

“Broken arm,” the woman says, and Wilbur’s world twists uneasily. He starts to drive. “Bruised ribs—” 

Wilbur’s going to call Phil, because Phil’s probably worried out of his mind, and Phil’s going to call Techno and Tubbo, and Wilbur and Phil are going to call Tommy’s parents because _holy shit_ —

The woman, who Wilbur just now realizes is a nurse, continues: “He has a mild concussion, and several minor lacerations on his forearms—” Wilbur’s heart skips a beat— “that appear to be from broken glass.” 

Breathing is very, very difficult right now. Wilbur swallows, trying to stay focused on the road, because he’s almost there, and if he crashes before he has a chance to see Tommy, to hug him, to tell him how much he means to him— well. It’ll be incredibly ironic, so he won’t. He exchanges a few more terse words with the nurse and hangs up. He’s almost there. Just a few more minutes. Just a few more. 

Wilbur’s out of the car the instant he parks, without a care for the rain still lashing angrily at the pavement. The run to Tommy’s room is a blur— he remembers repeating the not-quite lie from before when the woman manning the front desk informs him that currently only family can be let in, and not much else. 

He’s snapped back to awareness outside the door of Tommy’s room by a nurse tapping him on the shoulder. Wilbur jolts, surprised, and he guesses he’s just been staring at the door for an unknown amount of time. 

“Are you his brother?” 

Wilbur nods with barely a beat of hesitation.

The nurse purses her lips. “I wanted to speak with you briefly concerning his health.”

Wilbur’s mouth feels numb. “Oh?”

“Now, I talked you through his injuries on the phone, but we’ve also noticed that he’s malnourished and a bit dehydrated.”

Wilbur’s getting deja vu. It occurs to him suddenly that maybe nothing had gotten better since the last time Tommy was in the hospital, malnourished and sick, utterly alone. He nods wordlessly, and the nurse gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder that makes him want to cry.

Wilbur opens the door.

Tommy’s asleep on the bed— or maybe unconscious, a tangle of too-thin bruised limbs with pale, hollow cheeks. There’s a tiny smear of blood on his forehead, and darker bruises peek out from the top of his hospital gown. His arm is wrapped. He looks so fragile. He looks so… _small_.

Tommy’s 16, for fuck’s sake. He’s still a child, even if he gets treated as a full grown adult by people around him— he’s a massive streamer, sure, one of the best, and _sure_ he makes millions every year, but he is still a _child_. Tommy’s parents don’t seem to get that, and it— alongside Tommy’s diagnoses— obviously has had an adverse effect on the kid’s health.

And the boy’s parents just don’t seem to care, which is why Wilbur finds himself near the point of screaming at them over the phone with the same rage as the weather outside; they just don’t seem to care. Their son has been deteriorating in front of their very eyes, and while Wilbur has some of the blame— he hadn’t noticed Tommy’s self-esteem dropping, as clear as it’d been over the phone— this was their _son_. Wilbur'd talked to them about it before, but it didn’t seem to stick; and Wilbur was going to make them understand this time.

Wilbur’s anger evaporates, though, slowly, when he sees Tommy blink up at him. Wilbur hangs up, not bothering to give an explanation.

Tommy’s staring up at him with his glassy blue eyes wide and worried, almost devastated; the barest hint of tears gather at their corners. Wibur feels a pang of sadness. “Tommy?” he asks, as if soothing a skittish animal, because it’s then that he realizes Tommy’s stopped breathing. He’s completely frozen. “Tommy, _breathe._ ”

Tommy’s eyes flick over Wilbur’s body as he tries to steady himself. Wilbur can hear the unevenness of his breathing from the few feet away he stands. It makes his chest hurt in sympathy.

Tommy swallows and says, “I’d be dead if I wasn’t breathing. Hi, Wilbur.” He sounds unusually nervous. It makes sense, though, given the circumstances, and, _oh—_

It’s then that it finally hits Wilbur, the reality of the situation. Tommy looks like a wreck huddled on the hospital bed. He’d walked there _himself_. He’s sixteen, barely, and he’d just walked by himself to the hospital after nearly dying in a car crash. And Wilbur wouldn’t have _known_. “Tommy. Oh my god, you could have died,” Wilbur hears himself say.

As if he can’t help himself, Tommy says, “-I’m sorry.” _What?_ He looks really on the verge of tears now, voice growing unsteadier by the minute. “I’m so sorry for bothering you. You can— you can just— can you please just sign a paper so I can get my arm fixed, Wilbur, please?” 

Oh, _Tommy._

“I’m _sorry,_ ” He finishes, voice cracking. Wilbur feels his heart break.

“Tommy— Tommy, can I hug you?” _Please say yes._

Tommy looks down. There’s something dark and distressed behind his eyes, something Wilbur doesn’t like one bit. He nods.

Wilbur doesn’t waste a second moving in. He’s careful to avoid squishing Tommy’s injured forearm or ribs, so he wraps his arms around Tommy’s biceps. His skin is damp and cool to the touch. Wilbur feels shaky hands grasp the back of his sweater weakly— he wonders how long it’s been since Tommy’s been hugged. The thought breaks his heart just that much more.

He’s saying something, muffled, into Wilbur’s sweater. It takes him a second to realize it’s another apology. Tommy shifts and continues, “I’m really sorry— you can sign the thing and leave, Wilbur, I’m sorry.”

Wilbur wonders, frantically, how long Tommy’s been struggling right beneath his nose— the boy is shaking in his arms, blood crusted under his nails and on his shirt, and Wilbur’s hands tighten around him like a lifeline. It’s horrifying; and Wilbur’s eyes start to sting as he feels his sweater slowly becoming saturated with tears. How did he not notice? When’d it get so _bad_?

Wilbur has known that Tommy’s mental health isn’t great. He heard about the initial diagnosis, has often reminded Tommy to take his meds, was there for every time he got too caught up to take care of himself and lacked the people that should have done it for him. 

But this is— this is. This is so much worse than Wilbur ever thought, worse than he'd even considered. That Tommy thinks he's bothering him, that Wilbur should leave, that Wilbur would want to in the first place. 

“Oh my god, Tommy, no, never, I’m staying right here,” Wilbur says, and he means it, and he wraps his arms around Tommy tighter, careful to avoid the areas that he knows are purple and bruised. Tommy’s shaking, still, murmuring apologies, and Wilbur murmurs reassurances right back.

“Wil, why do I always fuck things up, I shouldn’t have fucking called you—” Tommy rambles into Wilbur’s damp sweater, and Wilbur curls a hand through his hair. “Hell, I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital, people are dying and the doctors are taking care of _me_ — because I couldn’t fucking drive one document a few cities—” and Jesus Christ, when’d it get so bad? When did Tommy start to believe that he was worth so little— how had none of them _noticed_?

“Tommy, darling, you would’ve died,” Wilbur says, voice shaking. His eyes are getting heavy with tears, finally, and Wilbur holds them back with sheer will. This boy—

“Maybe I should have!” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur’s mind blanks out entirely. No. No, no, no, _no_. He clings on to Tommy even tighter. “Maybe that guy didn’t hit my car hard enough, Wilbur, maybe then they’d pay some attention to me—” He cuts himself off. He’s freezing in Wilbur’s arms, and Wilbur can feel his ribs, and his shirt is sticking to both Tommy’s skin and Wilbur’s jeans. He looks so small— he _feels_ so small, and Wilbur swears to himself that he’s going to fix this. He’s going to fix this somehow.

“Toms— Tommy, sweetheart..” The petnames slip out, and Wilbur lets them. They’re some form of affection, and Wilbur needs those, because he doesn’t _know_ how to fix this. He doesn’t know where to _start_. Tommy’s shoulders are still shaking where Wilbur’s arms are wrapped around them. He’s so _sad._ He’s so, _so_ hurt, and Wilbur doesn’t know how or where to begin.

Tommy continues to ramble into his sweater, and Wilbur holds him, tight and careful, and sways back and forth. He needs to sign those papers soon, he thinks, absently, looking at the blood encrusted on the teenager’s shirt. He’d ask Phil to grab some clothes for both of them on the way. For now, though, when Tommy’s in this horrible, panicked state, Wilbur’ll do what he can. And if what he can do is sit down on the bed and hold Tommy and mumble reassurances into his ear, and intertwine his hand with Tommy’s smaller one as he quietly admits to not taking care of himself, and continue to hold it as he signs the forms— that’s what he’ll do.

“Phil,” Wilbur says into his phone, once he’s alone in an empty ward. Tommy’s arm is being operated on right now, and Wilbur’s gotten himself comfy; his coat is thrown hastily over a chair, and it’s still dripping wet; the documents— the fucking documents are placed neatly on the metal table, and Wilbur’s shoes are tucked under him uncomfortably in a criss-cross position. “Phil, I— I don’t know what to do.”

Phil’s driving over, from where he was a few cities away; he’d been visiting family, but he’d been ready to come the moment he heard Tommy on the stream. “I’m not sure what to tell you, mate,” Phil says, sighing. “It’ll be okay eventually.”

Wilbur runs a hand through his hair frustratedly. “I just don’t understand how we didn’t notice something was so _wrong._ ”

“Kid’s a streamer, Will,” Phil says. “He’s got a tough persona. Don’t beat yourself over it, Wilbur, please.”

Wilbur takes a shaky breath, staring down at his hands. He’s scrubbed them clean of blood and sweat, and they’re shaking slightly. “When will you get here?” he asks, instead of responding.

“Hour or so,” Phil replies. “Fast as I can.”

“Bring us some clothes, please.”

“Sure,” Phil says. “I’ll stop at a Primark.”

They talk for a while longer, and Wilbur gets himself a snack from a vending machine down the hall; he hasn’t eaten in a while, and Phil’s bringing food, so he resists the urge to order a pizza or something. Then Wilbur sees the amount of notifications he’s received in the past few hours— “Phil, how do I explain this to Tubbo?” Wilbur asks, head in his hands. “Jesus.”

“No clue, mate,” Phil says, sagely. “Just— be nice about it? I can call him for you, if you want.”

“No, no, I’ll do it myself,” Wilbur says. “Just get here. We need to yell at his parents.”

“We have to do _something_ ,” Phil agrees, quietly.

Tubbo’s been spamming Wilbur for almost two hours now, and he’s sent over a hundred messages; scrolling through them shows the boy at various levels of panic and despair, and Wilbur feels horribly guilty as he calls Tubbo. 

“Holy shit, Wilbur, is Tommy okay?” Tubbo says the moment Wilbur calls, picking up on the first ring. “I’ve been calling him for so long— I saw the clip— is he okay? Do you know where he is?”

“I’m— I’m with him, Tubbo, I’m sorry for not replying sooner,” Wilbur says, ruffling his hair in absent agitation. “He’s— he’s going to be okay.”

“What happened?” Tubbo sounds distressed, and Wilbur doesn’t blame him. Jesus, this kid’s been fretting about his best friend for hours now, after he’d mentioned a car crash on a stream of 40k people. Of course he’d be distressed.

“His car crashed,” Wilbur says, blankly. Tubbo gasps on the end of the phone, and Wilbur hurries to continue. “He’s okay, though! Just getting his arm fixed.”

“What happened to his arm?” Tubbo’s voice rises in pitch. “What— his car? How— what, how is he?”

“He’s okay,” Wilbur repeats, keeping his voice steady. “He broke his arm, but it’s getting fixed right now, and he’s a little bruised up, but he’s okay physically.”

“Mentally?” Tubbo asks, perceptive as always. Wilbur sighs. 

“Not that good,” he admits. “Tubbo— I mean— it’ll get better, eventually.”

Talking to Tubbo fades into a haze as well, and Wilbur talks absent-mindedly— most of his words are some jumble of reassurances and apologies, although he’s not sure what for. Medical personnel wander in and out of the wards around him, and enter the room he’s in a couple of times to switch things out; and Wilbur hangs up a while later with the promise to call Tubbo when Tommy’s awake.

Wilbur’s startled awake by nurses around him as Tommy’s brought into the ward; fast asleep, covered in bandages and scrapes. Fragile. Wilbur drags his chair to the bedside and settles in, wrapping his hand around Tommy’s, and waits.

He talks to Phil a while, and still is when Tommy wakes up, blinking down at him, exhausted. He hangs up, then, with the knowledge that Phil’s close by and he won’t have to figure this out himself. Tommy looks at him, hazy with drugs, and his hand tightens around Wilbur’s weakly. Wilbur doesn’t stop him from falling asleep.

Wilbur’s wrapped Phil in a hug as soon as he walks through the door, as though he’s the hurt child that needs comfort. Phil drops the things he’s brought, though, onto a table next to where he’s standing, to wrap his arms around Wilbur; and he’s a solidifying presence, even if Wilbur has to bend to hug him properly.

Wilbur leaves them for a while to change into the warm sweater and pants that Phil’s brought. He can hear Tommy sobbing outside, again, and resists the need to go outside and hug him; Phil’s low, comforting tones slowly replace the choked sobs, and Wilbur takes a minute to hold his head in his hands. This is stressful, but he’s going to deal with it.

Wilbur hands an earbud to Phil, who’s replaced him on the chair next to Tommy’s bed. _They’re_ going to deal with it.

Tommy’s mother picks up on the third ring. “Hello?” She still sounds terse. It makes Wilbur’s blood boil.

“It’s Wilbur,” Wilbur says, not even trying to keep the anger out of his voice. 

“I’m sorry, I’m still at work.” She huffs, then adds, “And I don’t appreciate being hung up on.”

Wilbur hisses a breath through gritted teeth. Stay calm. Stay calm. “I hung up on you because your son, who is in the hospital with a broken arm, bruised ribs, and a concussion, had woken up and needed surgery. My mistake.”

There’s a pause. “Sorry? What?”

“I told you he had been in a wreck!” Wilbur’s voice is strained, on the edge of shouting, and he makes an effort to quiet himself because he can see the way Tommy jolts. “I _told_ you.”

“You could have said it was serious!”

“I hope you would have cared even if it wasn’t!”

“Of course I would have!” The woman’s voice has risen in pitch, and breaks now. “He’s my son.”

“Then act like it,” Wilbur hisses, pushing back the prickling guilt. “I’m sorry, but your _son_ has been deteriorating in front of your very eyes for a while now— and while that’s also on me for not noticing, you’re his parents! You’re supposed to be there!”

“We were there,” Tommy’s mother says. “We got him a therapist— he had medication and everything.”

“Did he have his parents?” Wilbur asks. “Do you know how many times I’ve taken him to the hospital when he was so sick he collapsed, home alone?”

There’s no reply. Wilbur continues. “Good on you for getting him a therapist. Next try being there. Or, at least, leaving him with an adult! A child shouldn’t have to buy their own groceries! Or hope they die in a car crash!”

“ _What_?” Tommy’s mother says, sounding brittle. “What?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m— I’m coming to the hospital,” the woman says. “I’ll call his father too— I—”

“Listen to me first, ma’am,” Wilbur says. “Listen. If he doesn’t want to see you when you get here, you will comply. After he’s discharged, he’s going to stay with Phil for a week or two so you two can adjust to _actually_ taking care of your child.”

There’s a short, contemplative silence. “I trust Mister Watson,” she says. “We— we can discuss this further when we get there.”

“We will,” Wilbur agrees, and allows himself a little jab: “Drive safe.”

Wilbur makes good on his promise to Tubbo, later, when Tommy’s awake and propped against the upright hospital bed. His ribs are still healing, and Wilbur can see the outlines of thick bandages under the kid’s gown. Wilbur calls his friend and sets his phone on Tommy’s lap on speaker. It’s not like Tommy’ll be able to hold it, with his broken and scraped arms.

“Hey, big man,” says Tommy, nearly sheepish. His voice is still weak, and judging by the grimace that flickers across his features, he’s aware. Wilbur gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. Tommy returns it, albeit tinged with exhaustion.

“Tommy!” Tubbo’s voice is crackly over the speakers, but the relief is unmistakable. “Tommy, are you alright?”

Tommy barks a half-hearted laugh. “Oh, you know me.” The smile looks like it’s struggling to stay on his face. “I’m okay, Tubbo. Big T never dies.”

Wilbur frowns. He wishes Tommy could understand that he doesn’t have to act confident all the time— hell, he’s in a hospital bed right now, covered head to toe in injuries, and he’s reassuring Tubbo.

“Don’t talk about dying,” Tubbo says, sounding vaguely upset. “I called you for two hours, Tommy, I thought you were dead.”

Tommy looks abashed, and pauses for a second. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I should’ve thought—”

“It’s fine, it’s okay,” Tubbo replies hurriedly. “I was— was just worried, was all.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy repeats. Tubbo makes a sound on the other end of the phone. 

“It’s fine!” he repeats, pitch rising. “Tommy! I’m just happy you’re okay, alright? I don’t know what I would’ve done...”

Tommy blinks, slowly, and Wilbur can see his eyes getting watery, so he stands quietly to give them some privacy. Phil’s on the other side of the room, half asleep; and Wilbur drops down next to him. The eldest had been on the phone with Kristen, earlier, the two of them discussing where they’d house the teenager and young adult for two weeks; while Wilbur could, hypothetically, drive back and forth between the two houses, he’d definitely prefer to stay with Tommy. Phil’d agreed with no hesitation.

Wilbur politely pretends not to notice Tommy’s shoulders shaking, or the way he’s grinning at the phone through tears, knowing that the two teenagers are having a moment; and instead focuses on his phone, slowly replying to the hundreds of concerned messages from other creators who’d seen the videos of Tommy’s phone call. He settles on talking to Techno, who Phil’d talked to on his way to the hospital; but none of them had been sure as to what was going on, and Wilbur takes his time explaining.

When Tommy falls asleep mid-sentence Wilbur hears Tubbo’s quiet gasp, and stands to end the call with a quiet promise to Tubbo that yes, he can come visit Tommy once he’s out of the hospital. He brushes Tommy’s hair from his eyes, gently, and observes the cuts and scrapes and bruises left over, and the bandages that cover his arm and patch up the rest of his skin. He’ll be okay, Wilbur thinks. Tommy’s parents will be here soon, and Wilbur and Phil’ll talk to them. It’ll be okay.

It _will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed the angst-fest part 2: electric boogaloo :)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's qar’s Discord link if you'd like to join! (copy paste the link into a web browser): https://discord.gg/w9CwSK26mm
> 
> Our draft for this is full of us just commenting "NOOO WHY" on stuff the other has written. Also, Qar asked me to bully her in the notes, so I should tell you all that she cannot spell. She is aware of this, and when commenting on it, misspelled "spelling" as "spekking." That's not even her most notable typo. Also her outlines are the most chaotic thing I've ever seen and she INSISTS on writing in Verdana even though I strictly write in Arial or Comic Sans. The nerve.
> 
> I think that's it, so hope you enjoyed the angst-fest!
> 
> Qar's end spiel: reach out if you need anybody, stay safe <3 ALSO THIS IS ME ADDING ON: L SUPREMACY!!!! WOOOO THEY WRITE FUCKING GOOD WHAT A LEGEND
> 
> L's end spiel: leave a comment of what you liked, what made you cry, and what made you want to personally hunt us down and beat us up!


End file.
